


Interrogation

by standbygo



Series: Deep [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Surprise Ending, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I asked Mr. Montague for this assignment, special. He’s gonna ask you some questions, and I kinda hope you don’t answer them right, because I’m gonna really enjoy kicking the shit out of you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interrogation

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock stirred.

“Mr. Holmes, wake up.” A metallic ringing noise, then the bite of a slap to the cheek. Sherlock rose up through deep waters to consciousness.

“Very good, thank you.” The voice was ahead and slightly to Sherlock’s right. Sherlock blinked and straightened as best he could, taking information in as quickly as possible – storeroom, approximately 25 metres by 32 metres, several packing cases, light source two bare lightbulbs overhead; one man with his back to the only door, facing into the room, clearly a guard; the speaker, seated in an office chair in front of him; another person just behind Sherlock and to his left. Sherlock himself was seated on a metal chair, arms handcuffed behind him, with the chain of the cuffs strung through the slats on the back; ankles cuffed to the legs of the chair. He tried to stand, just for the hell of it; a strong hand on his left shoulder forced him back down. The hand stayed in place, holding him down with surprising strength.

The seated man was playing with his camera phone, turning it over and over in his hands. His face was partly in shadow, but Sherlock recognized him with little surprise.

“At the risk of sounding like a Bond villain – we meet at last, Mr. Holmes,” the man said with a grin.

Sherlock licked his lips. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Montague.”

He saw a thin smile in the dim light. “Enough small talk, yes? I understand you’ve been investigating my little enterprise. Well, mine, and my superior’s. And your ties to New Scotland Yard are well known. So I arranged for you to be brought to me, so we can discuss the situation in person.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. He felt his senses becoming sharper, taking in more detail, more sensation. He was most keenly aware of the press of the hand on his shoulder. “And what _precisely_ do you wish to discuss?” 

Montague held up two fingers. “Just two simple things, Mr. Holmes. What you know,” he tapped his forefinger, “and what you have already told Scotland Yard.” He tapped his middle finger, then held his hands out. “Simple, yes?”

“And why would I ever want to discuss that? Dull.”

“I understand your reluctance, Mr. Holmes. And you in turn must understand my predicament. I have interests to protect.” Montague nodded, curtly. “Jimmy?”

The weight was removed from Sherlock’s shoulder and the man came around to squat in front of him. Sherlock took in the man’s compact stature, his dark hair, bearded face, the glint in his eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” said Jimmy softly. “We haven’t met, but you’ve met my brother, Tommy Bewick. Remember?”

Sherlock tilted his head at the man, raised an eyebrow.

“Belarus?”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said. “Now I remember. Your grammar is rather better than your brother’s.”

The man’s hand flashed out and grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair. “He asked for your help, bastard, and you walked away from him. Walked away,” he repeated, pulling hair for emphasis. “They hung him a month later, while he was still puking up his lungs from pneumonia.”

“Your brother was guilty.”

Jimmy released Sherlock’s hair, stood and swung his fist into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s head rocked back, then was held in place again by Jimmy’s hand in his hair.

“I asked Mr. Montague for this assignment, special. He’s gonna ask you some questions, and I kinda hope you don’t answer them right, because I’m gonna really enjoy kicking the shit out of you.”

+

“Donovan?”

“Sir?”

“You heard from Sherlock recently?”

Sally Donovan glared over her paperwork at Lestrade. “Sir, why the hell would the freak contact me? We aren’t exactly mates.”

“He was going to get back to me this morning with his findings last night about the Montague case, the smuggling ring. Haven’t heard boo.”

“He has his own schedule, doesn’t he? It’s not like he keeps hours.”

“True.”  Lestrade scratched the back of his head. “It’s just… I’ve texted him a few times now, asking for an update, and I haven’t had any response. Not even ‘Piss off’.”

Donovan frowned. “That’s not like him,” she admitted grudgingly. She looked up at Lestrade again. “I hate myself for asking this, but he’s not been himself much lately, has he? Not since…”

“No,” Lestrade said. 

+

“Have any of my people spoken to you?”

Silence.

“Jimmy?”

A dull thud echoed through the room. Sherlock gritted his teeth, shook his head a bit, and stared at Montague.

“Where did you get your information?”

Silence.

“Jimmy?”

Jimmy cocked his fist back, but Sherlock spoke first.

“I don’t need your people to tell me anything, I don’t need an external source. I look, I observe, I gather the clues and reach the rather inane conclusions. I don’t need anyone…” Sherlock hesitated for a bare second, “I don’t need anyone to tell me how inherently stupid you and your – superiors – are.” 

A pause. Then, “Jimmy?”

Sherlock’s head rocked back again. 

+

“Don’t get me wrong,” Donovan said, “he’s far from my favourite person in the world. And I don’t make it a secret that I don’t like his methods, but I have to admit he led us to a lot of people we might not otherwise have gotten.”

“Generous of you.”

“Well.” Donovan cracked her knuckles in embarrassment. “It used to be fun to provoke him, honestly, he had the best insults. But it’s no goddamn _fun_ anymore. He doesn’t say anything anymore, just sighs and carries on.”

Lestrade grunted in agreement. “You were there, weren’t you, the day he and John-?”

Donovan nodded. “An epic fight like that I have never seen. I nearly high-fived Dr. Watson when he walked out.”

Lestrade nodded, but did not share what only he had seen – the stricken look on John Watson’s face as he left the scene. It was that look that made Lestrade text him the next day to ask if everything was all right, if they’d patched it up; John had texted back that he had accepted a post at a hospital in Glasgow and was leaving London immediately. 

Donovan was right, Sherlock had not been the same since. He still solved crimes, still was brilliant, but something was missing. Lestrade was not so far from his own divorce to not recognize deep heartbreak when he saw it. But any time he tried to speak to Sherlock about it, the man would straighten his back and neck like a strange peacock and walk away.

+

“You’re starting to bore me, Mr. Holmes,” Montague said.

“I’m getting bored too, Mr. Montague,” Jimmy said. He was panting a bit, from the exercise, but he was clearly far from tired.

“All right, Jimmy, go ahead,” Montague said indulgently.

Jimmy smiled a bit, then walked behind Sherlock’s back and took his left index finger into his hand. Montague smiled at the loud snap, and at the muffled scream that escaped Sherlock’s lips.

“One,” Jimmy said, and then – snap – “Two.”

+

Lestrade’s mobile burbled in his pocket and he dove for it. 

“Yup, it’s Sherlock,” he said to Donovan. “Just an address, though. Look it up for us, will you?” He handed the mobile to her.

Donovan clicked at the computer, then looked more closely at Lestrade’s mobile. Her brows drew together.

“You just got this?” she said.

“You heard it.”

“It’s date stamped twelve hours ago.”

Lestrade grabbed the phone and stared. “He set it up in advance to only send now. Bugger’s probably already there.”

He and Donovan locked eyes, then they both scrambled for keys and coats and ran out the door.

+

Sherlock felt a plastic bottle being pressed to his lips. Instinctively he raised his head a little and sipped at the water, and ran his tongue across his lips, smearing the blood that had dribbled down his face. 

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Montague said.

Sherlock took another sip, a big one, and spat it at Montague.

The water had barely pattered on the concrete floor before Jimmy had pulled a knife from his pocket and held it to Sherlock’s throat.

Montague was laughing, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his face. “It’s all right, Jimmy, calm down,” he chuckled.

“He pisses me off, sir,” Jimmy snarled. 

“Oh, go on then,” Montague said, waving his hand indifferently.

Jimmy smiled, all teeth, and pulled the blade along Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock heard the sound of skin popping, heard the drip of blood soaking his shirt.

+

Donovan was driving skillfully, weaving through traffic, sirens in full cry. Lestrade was muttering a constant stream of curses, pressing his foot down on the floor of the passenger side as if that would make the car go faster.

“Sir,” Donovan said, “you don’t suppose he…”

“Drive faster,” Lestrade said.

+

“It was the mud,” Sherlock muttered.

“Sorry?” Montague looked up sharply, holding up his hand. Jimmy went still.

“There were muddy footprints all over the floor in the warehouse. I analyzed the mud and found traces of a clay unique to the Narew River in Poland. That’s how I linked the two locations.” Sherlock licked his lips, glancing at the bottle of water.

“Jimmy, give Mr. Holmes some water.” 

Jimmy held the bottle to Sherlock’s lips, and as he drank, Montague said, “But how did you connect Poland to our satellite in Czech?”

Sherlock straightened his back with renewed energy from the water. “Simple. Too simple. You’re very fortunate that most of Scotland Yard is made up of idiots. They are, at least, smarter than your people.” Sherlock glanced up at Jimmy and smiled pointedly. 

Jimmy’s boot landed in Sherlock’s solar plexus.

+

Donovan pulled up to a warehouse district, and she and Lestrade stared with open mouths.

“There’s at least ten buildings at this address,” Donovan said. “He could be in any room, in any building.”

“Where’s the bloody backup?” Lestrade snarled.

+

“I must say I admire you, Mr. Holmes,” Montague said, while checking his phone for messages. Sherlock’s breath came in shuddering gasps. “You’ve held out for much longer than I thought you would, and I will admit that I believe you’ve come to the end of what you will tell me.” 

He set his phone down and gazed at Sherlock frankly. “You realize we can’t just let you go.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock rasped. “Fine. Just do it.”

Montague’s eyebrows rose with surprise. “Really, Mr. Holmes? No pleas, no bribes, no handwringing? I did so want to hear you whine for your life.”

“Not worth it,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Speak up!” Jimmy said sharply.

Sherlock raised his head and looked Jimmy in the eyes. “Don’t want to. Not anymore. Please.”

Jimmy held his gaze for a long moment, then carefully put the knife down. He circled Sherlock in his chair, never taking his eyes off him, the handcuffs, the blood soaked shirt and hair. He returned and stood in front of Sherlock, holding his gaze once more.

“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock said quietly.

Jimmy put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and twisted quickly. The crunching sound made Montague wince.

“Jimmy!” he shouted. “Goddamn it, I didn’t say-”. 

At that moment the door was kicked open, knocking the guard to the floor, and the room was suddenly filled with police officers.

“Everyone on the floor NOW!” Lestrade roared. “Hands on the back of your heads! Do it now!” He caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s body, slumped in the chair, neck at an odd angle. “Jesus. Jesus Christ, no.”

Jimmy had lain down face first on the floor in front of Sherlock, hands on his head. Lestrade knelt on his back, gun at the back of his neck, his shaking hands reaching for his cuffs. “What did you do, what the hell have you done, Jesus Christ-”

“Lestrade.”

Lestrade looked up in shock as Sherlock rose from the chair, rubbed at his wrists, shaking out his arms and legs as though stiff. 

“What the hell, Sherlock-?”

Sherlock looked up at Donovan cuffing Montague. “Get them out please, Sally, if you please. Or is that too much to ask? None of them are married, should be of no interest to you at all.”

Sally rolled her eyes as she pushed Montague, who was bug eyed with astonishment, out the door.

As soon as they were gone, Sherlock looked down and said softly, “Let him up, please, Lestrade.”

“Sherlock, I swear to God you better start explaining things to me right now or I’ll-”  

“Christ, Greg, what do you weigh, fourteen stone? Get your bloody knee off my back, will you?” said a muffled voice from the floor.

After a long, long moment, Greg stood up and stepped back, but did not put down his gun. “All right, stand up very slowly. Keep your hands on your head.”

“That’s impossible to do, Lestrade, and you know it,” Sherlock said, and extended his hand to the man on the floor. 

As soon as the man stood, Lestrade let his gun and his jaw drop at the same time. “John?”

“In the flesh,” John replied, grinning. 

“You’re not in Glasgow.” Sherlock’s mouth opened and Lestrade promptly snapped, “If you say ‘ _Obviously’_ , Sherlock, I will hit you.” He clicked the safety on the gun and waved it between Sherlock and John. “Could one of you please explain before I go mad?”

“Deep undercover,” John replied. “I infiltrated the gang two months ago, presenting myself as Jimmy Bewick, brother of the fellow Sherlock was called to in Belarus. It provided them with a sufficient backstory to trust me and my hatred of the famous Sherlock Holmes.” John paused and smiled up at Sherlock. Greg noticed the extremely rare Sherlock smile dancing around his face, and that he was drifting closer to John.

“So the fight back in September was…?” 

“Fake. I had to leave Baker Street to commit fully to the gang, and you all needed to believe I was really gone.” John has the grace to look a little sheepish. “Sorry about that.”

“And the point of all this was what? To give me a damn heart attack?”

“I allowed myself to be captured eleven hours and thirty two minutes ago,” Sherlock said. “They brought me in to find out what I knew, and what information I had already shared with you. ‘Jimmy’ here,” Sherlock gestured at John, “was allowed to help with my interrogation.”

“But rather than Montague getting information from Sherlock, we were getting information from Montague,” John grinned. He took off his watch and handed it to Lestrade. “There’s a recorder inside.  There should be enough on there to put Montague away for life, and to connect him to his superiors.”

“The whole network, Lestrade. All yours,” Sherlock added.

Lestrade felt he could be forgiven for feeling a bit stunned. He stared at the watch for a moment. 

“Hang on a mo,” he said. “I was outside that door listening, just before we crashed in. I heard your neck break, I swear to God. Did you brother buy you a snap-o-matic head or something?”

John got an impish look on his face. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock, now with a full grin on his face, bent down and picked up the plastic water bottle. Staring fully into Lestrade’s eyes, he twisted his neck from side to side, crumpling the bottle as he moved. The sound made a shiver go up Lestrade’s back. He pointed dumbly at Sherlock’s stained shirt and face. “Blood?”

Sherlock unbuttoned two buttons on his dripping red shirt, opened it slightly. Lestrade can see the shreds of baggies taped to his chest, empty but still dripping red. 

“ _Fake_ blood,” Lestrade said.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade’s glare. Then, as Lestrade’s eyes grow wider, he dipped his finger in one of the baggies and licked it. “Corn syrup base.”

“You guys,” Lestrade said, shaking his head, “are deeply, deeply disturbed.” He put his gun away, and tucked the watch into an evidence baggy.  “I better start analyzing this recording before Montague gets a lawyer to spring him. You two had better come in and give a full statement.”

“Tomorrow, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, looking only at John.

“That’s what I meant,” Lestrade said, and left the room.

Sherlock stared down at John, a small, proud smile on his face. “Well, John,” he said. “I will have to re-evaluate my estimation of your acting abilities. You were quite convincing.”

John grinned back. “Well, that fellow from the National Theatre didn’t just show us the stage fighting tricks, he gave me some acting tips as well.” He tilted his head up, and grew solemn. “Let’s go home, Sherlock.”

They fall into step as they walk towards the door. John rubbed at his hair. “Lord, I’ll be glad to get back to my own hair colour. Stop scaring myself every time I go past a mirror.”

Sherlock reached out and ran his fingers through John’s hair; John arched up into the touch.

“Not quite yet, John,” Sherlock whispered.

  _End_  


 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on a sequel where we find out what John was up to while undercover, how Sherlock and John accomplish their "trick", and what they get up to when they get home. *evil grin*
> 
> Now translated into Chinese! Here's the link: http://www.mtslash.com/thread-119779-1-1.html, and log in as the username: author01, password: author01. Thanks to the very kind and brilliant hydesakura, who has also promised to translate Undercover when it's complete).


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